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“Sorrow & Shrike”
Okeechobee Co., FL.
11-Nov.-2022
Have you ever had a place creep into your heart and take root there—slowly, unnoticed, with tiny creeping tendrils, small enough to weasel their way into every crevice? So deep, so entwined, that you don’t even realize it has become a permanent part of you—of your identity.
Have you ever had to leave that place? And suddenly become aware of just how deeply it has rooted itself, when leaving feels like you’re leaving a piece of yourself behind, too?
My first job after college was that place—and this is likely the first of many pieces to come from that feeling.
It was a wildlife technician job in Okeechobee, Florida. I was undecided about taking it. In the months leading up to graduation, I’d been convinced I would be getting the hell out of Florida. Taking this job felt, in some ways, like stepping backward—or at least away from the path I thought I was meant to follow.
It was in a small park near Lake Placid, not long after my interview, that I sat trying to make the decision. I know how ridiculous this sounds, but what confirmed it for me was the shriek of a shrike.
Shrikes—also known as butcher birds—have fascinated me since I first learned of their existence. At that moment, I sat alone in a park in a town that felt foreign to me, facing a choice that would quietly set the stage for the rest of my professional life. I was twenty-three, newly graduated, staring down what felt like the rest of forever.
And then, a shrike screamed from the live oak above me….